


Choicest Fruits

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [7]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel with Genitalia, Lingerie, Love, Nonbinary Character, Sex Toys, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: The small box is sitting on the table like an unexploded bomb.Crowley takes his time making his coffee. He has one of those fancy machines now that does it for him, but he waits until every last drop is in the cup before he turns around and looks across the kitchen, towards table, box and angel.“It’s not going to bite you,” he says, amused.





	Choicest Fruits

**Author's Note:**

> The minute I wrote the end of _Differing Tastes_, I knew this one would be inevitable. And lo, here it is.

The small box is sitting on the table like an unexploded bomb.

Crowley takes his time making his coffee. He has one of those fancy machines now that does it for him, but he waits until every last drop is in the cup before he turns around and looks across the kitchen, towards table, box and angel.

“It’s not going to bite you,” he says, amused.

Aziraphale gives him a reproachful look. “I know it seems silly, but this…” His lips purse and he looks so worried and concerned that Crowley almost wishes he hadn’t bought the damned thing. “Well…” Aziraphale shrugs helplessly. “Well, it’s not _you_, is it?”

Crowley is very glad he had not yet lifted his cup to his mouth. “I’d bloody well hope not,” he says, laughing. He returns to the table, abandoning his coffee and dragging the other chair as close to the angel as he can to wrap his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and nuzzle the corner of his jaw. “It’s not a replacement. I’m not saying I want to stop anything. It’s just…” He kisses the soft, smooth skin just below Aziraphale’s ear, feathery white curls tickling his nose. “An accessory.”

Aziraphale’s fingers close around his arm. “An accessory,” he echoes, the relief in his voice shaking Crowley to his core.

He lifts his head, searching the angel’s profile. “Did you really think I was trying to fob you off? With a toy?” To his delight, the angel’s cheeks go pink. “Angel!”

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale exclaims, turning those lovely eyes on him. “I’ve– we’ve– I’m always so very afraid I’ll push for too much! I thought I had!” He gives a small, shaking laugh. “Crowley, you didn’t want– you didn’t like– and I–”

Crowley smothers his words with a firm kiss, then another when he tries to protest again, and again and again. He pulls Aziraphale’s chair back, climbs astride him, burying his fingers in the angel’s hair and kissing the breath from him until he can’t say anything so stupid anymore.

When he pulls back, lips tingling, Aziraphale is flushed and his mouth is pink and deliciously swollen from kisses. The angel’s hands are brushing lightly up and down his sides, rumpling his silk pyjamas against his skin.

“We try things,” Crowley reminds him, his own breathing a little bit more uneven than he’d planned. “So I didn’t like having a cock” – he smirks at the wrinkle that still crosses Aziraphale’s nose at the word – “but it doesn’t mean I didn’t want to try and see.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face breaks into that divine smile of his. “Oh, I _am_ glad.”

Crowley laughs, wriggling a little bit closer on his lap. “I bet you are,” he says, combing his fingers through Aziraphale’s sleep-mussed curls. “You’re going to have to prise me off you with a crowbar before I let any toy replace me.”

Deft fingers slip under the end of his pyjama top, skimming low across his back and making him shiver deliciously. “It would have to be an exceptional toy,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“Not,” Crowley growls, nuzzling the very tip of his nose, “happening.”

Sometimes, looking into the angel’s face when he is happy is like trying to outstare a sunrise.

“I suppose,” he says, fingers playing across Crowley’s ribs as if outlining every inch of him, “I ought to open your present.”

“Only when you want to, angel.”

It’s not for selfish reasons, he tells himself. Present can wait, since he has Aziraphale’s arms around him and their lips find each other again and it’s nothing more than kissing and the most feathersoft of touches that leave him shivering and breathless in the angel’s arms, his fingers sunk into Aziraphale’s back, their tea and coffee cold and forgotten on the table.

The present can wait and it does.

Not on the table, though.

It moves – not by Crowley’s hand and he suspects not even by Aziraphale’s – into the bedroom, where it patiently lies on the bedside table on Aziraphale’s side of the bed. It’s not much, only a small box wrapped in white with a gold ribbon. A tantalising promise and something he longs for the angel to enjoy.

There’s nothing quite like seeing an angel finding true pleasure, especially not one as expressive as Aziraphale.

But he’s willing to wait, because he knows – oh, how he knows – exactly how curious Aziraphale can be. After all, he was the one who wanted to see what their bodies were capable of. He always liked to indulge and what’s this if not one more bodily indulgence to strike off his list. 

It takes nearly two months, but Crowley is patient. He can understand Aziraphale’s hesitation. It’s something new, something taboo and daring and probably still frowned on in the eyes of heaven. But then, everything about them is frowned upon. He’s been used to that for centuries. It’s just that Aziraphale is taking a little longer to catch up.

When Aziraphale decides he’s ready, there’s no sign on the horizon. They walk on the beach, Crowley skims pebbles on the water – he cheats, of course – and when they come back to the house for supper, Aziraphale doesn’t say anything about it.

The first Crowley knows about it is when he walks into the bedroom after his shower, running his fingers through his still-damp hair, and finds the angel sitting at the foot of the bed, the box cradled in his hands. The ribbon is untied, trailing over his thighs, and the box is open.

Crowley’s throat is suddenly tight and dry and he knows he should use some kind of words, but all he can manage is “Ngk?”

The angel looks up with a small smile. “It’s very pretty,” he says. “Hardly what I expected.”

Crowley managed to scrape up some words. “Were you expecting something… Roman?”

From the blush on the angel’s face, that’s exactly what he was thinking of. Crowley groans inwardly. He should’ve remembered. They both lived through Nero’s orgies. Aziraphale probably saw far more there than he did at any of his other outings, enough to get the wrong idea.

The words go out the window again when Aziraphale takes the object out of the box. It’s small, white, with gold, and looks even more delicate in the angel’s hand.

“There are wires,” he says, uncertain.

“Don’t need them,” Crowley says surely, not wanting to risk the chance of Aziraphale hesitating or changing his mind. Technically, it _does_ need charging, but not now. He’ll make certain of it.

Aziraphale smiles up at him. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

Crowley can’t help smirking. “You have no idea.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch in that not-quite-smile that means he’s giggling internally. He sets his new possession down on the bed, then carefully closes up the box, wrapping the ribbon around it. Crowley’s head swims at the sight of the white and gold against Aziraphale’s favourite tartan blanket. There’s something oddly erotic about seeing it there, accepted and ready to be used.

“Where shall I put this?” Aziraphale inquires, rising, with the box.

Crowley is across the floor claiming both the box and a greedy kiss. “I’ll take care of it.”

The angel lights up again. “I know,” he says so softly that he could’ve knocked Crowley’s legs out from under him and he would never have noticed. Aziraphale lifts a hand to touch his cheek. “I would like to… try it tonight.”

It takes a lot of effort to swallow. “You sure, angel?”

There’s a gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes that is curiosity, mischief and lust all rolled into one. It’s a heady combination in that cherubic face. “Oh _yes_.” He brushes his thumb along Crowley’s jaw. “You’ll have to show me what to do.”

“Ngh??”

Aziraphale actually giggles, ducking his head, his cheeks pinking. “Oh, shush. Put the box away and come to bed.”

Crowley stares at him, then chucks the box straight over his shoulder, not giving a damn where it lands.

“Crowley!”

“S’away,” he says, grinning.

Aziraphale laps at his lower lip and glances down at himself. “I’m probably a little overdressed.”

Trousers, shirt, waistcoat and socks.

“Probably,” Crowley agrees and steps closer to take care of that. He isn’t surprised at all when Aziraphale reaches up and threads his fingers through Crowley’s loose hair, though gently and he doesn’t pull. Not yet. He’s always weak for it, even now, and Crowley hides his smile against Aziraphale’s lips.

The waistcoat goes first, then he hesitates, a thought coming to him.

“Keep your shirt on,” he says, drawing back. “Let’s focus one place at a time.”

Aziraphale nods. “Trousers, then?”

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s waistband. “Trousers,” he agrees, undoing the buttons blindly. He’s done it often enough now, he could do it in the dark with one hand behind his back. “Can you let go of my hair?”

Aziraphale draws his hands back, holding them level with his chest. “What do you have in mind?”

Crowley only grins, then sinks down onto his knees and drags the angel’s trousers down with him. It would normally be enough to keep the angel blushing, but then he gets an eyeful of exactly what the angel is wearing under his elegant trousers and the only sound Crowley can produce is “Gneeee??”

Aziraphale goes as pink as the delicate frothy knickers he’s wearing. “I-I thought–” He clears his throat. “It seemed more… fitting.”

Crowley stares up at him, then stares back at the knickers. They have tiny flowers embroidered on them and there’s a garter belt. An honest-to-goodness garter belt. And it’s… oh Jesus Christ, he’s wearing _stockings_. Crowley sags back on his heels, his heart going a bit too fast and his eyes about as big as they’ve ever been. 

“Wh– gna–” He flails, helpless, inarticulate, waving a hand.

Aziraphale is bordering on bright red. “Er… Madame Tracy made some… suggestions.” He looks so hopeful and bashful, his hands folded together under his chin, and Crowley doesn’t think it could even be possible to love him anymore. “I thought they were pretty.”

Crowley nods, reeling, and reaches out to pull the trousers out of the way, the rest of the way down, and God, he’s right. They _are_ pretty. _He_ is pretty. All Crowley can do is sway forward and press a kiss to each plump knee.

Above him, Aziraphale all but buckles with a sigh of relief. “Oh you _like_ them?”

Crowley nods, alternating kisses to each thigh, inching closer to the lacy border between gauze-thin fabric and skin. Words might be gone, but he can kiss and nuzzle and tug on the lace with his teeth to get his point across. Fingers sink into his hair again, thumbs curving the shells of his ears, and he looks up, the angel radiant above him.

“Show me,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft and tender. “Show me what to do.”

Crowley knees up a little further and noses the ends of Aziraphale’s shirt up. Better to see everything the angel has been hiding all day. Oh _Christ_, it must have been all day. On the beach, in the car, at dinner. He hasn’t changed all day. He’s been…

A small, needy sound catches in Crowley’s throat and he leans closer, pressing his lips to the tissue-fine fabric of those pale ivory and pink knickers. Aziraphale shivers, his fingers pulling tight in Crowley’s hair. Crowley shivers, clutching at his thighs, squeezing.

“Have–” His voice is so hoarse it might’ve been a stranger’s. “H’v’you changed?”

He feels the ripple under his palms of Aziraphale’s power and is close enough to taste the scent in the air. He slides his hands up, hooking his thumbs over the waistband of those lovely little knickers and dragging them down, pressing his lips to each inch of skin as it’s revealed. Course, then the bloody garter belt gets in the way. He hisses at it and fumbles with the clips.

“Careful!” Aziraphale laughs. Sounds delighted. Looks it too. All glowy. Stupid, lovely angel. He takes his hands from Crowley’s hair and unclips the belt. The knickers slide right down now, skimming over soft thigh and down and Crowley wraps his fingers around them. Warm and soft as Aziraphale himself.

“Can I look?” he asks, gazing up at his angel. He’s touched when the angel changed before, but touching and seeing are two different things.

Aziraphale goes pinker again and nods, sitting down on the very edge of the bed in front of him and spreading his knees.

Crowley swallows, then leans closer, running his hands gently along shivering thighs. Shouldn’t be nervous. Neither of them should. They’ve been _in_ each other, for… whoever’s sake. But still new and different and he pushes the tails of Aziraphale’s shirt aside and looks at him.

“Well?” Aziraphale’s watching him. “What is it like?”

Crowley traces his fingers along the angel’s thigh, watching how he shivers, then grins and brushes a thumb over the delicate folds of warm, wet, pink flesh. Aziraphale’s fingers clench in the bedding and his teeth worry his lower lip.

“It’s… weird,” he admits, though he can’t stop himself from touching again, especially when it makes Aziraphale quiver like that. “Like a rose, sort of. Pinkish. Layers.” He keeps his eyes on the angel’s face and rubs that spot he found last time. Aziraphale exhales sharply, stockinged feet skittering on the floor. “Good?”

Aziraphale jerks his chin in the tiniest of nods, his hands in knots in the covers, his hips lifting towards Crowley’s hand. Crowley lets him rub against his fingers, watching, waiting, and as soon as Aziraphale’s eyes squeeze closed, he gives in to the temptation, whipping his hand away and replacing it with his lips.

Aziraphale yelps, clamping his thighs closed around Crowley’s head in surprise.

It’s a terrible prison, Crowley thinks giddily, snaking his tongue out and adding a flickering lick for good measure.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale opens his legs again and squirms up the bed. He looks flustered and giddy and his pupils so wide his eyes are almost utterly dark, only the tiniest of rims of blue left. S’a good look on him. Damn good look.

Crowley crawls up onto the bed after him, kneeling at his feet.

“No,” Aziraphale says, wagging a shaking finger at him. “Not that. Not tonight.” He takes a shivering breath. “One– one temptation at a time.”

Not tonight means another night. Crowley slowly grins. He’s patient. He can wait.

Tonight, though…

His eyes move to the little object, small and harmless and white and gold. He reaches over, picking it up, and holds it out. Aziraphale worries his lip again, then takes it. Crowley beams, sitting back happily on his heels between the angel’s feet.

“What do I do?” Aziraphale asks, turning the toy gently in his hands.

Crowley’s never used one before, but he’s not an idiot and he’s been on youtube. The company that made this particular little shiny thing made a handy advisory video, so at least one of them knows what the Hell they’re doing. He leans forward, covering Aziraphale’s hand with his own, and guides his thumb to the power button.

The vibrator buzzes so suddenly the angel squeaks in surprise and drops it. “Oh!”

Crowley doesn’t even bother to try and keep from laughing. “S’meant to,” he manages, scooting a little closer. It means Aziraphale has to spread his knees a little wider and that’s good. “Pick it up.”

Aziraphale does so, then rubs it against his other palm. “Oh… oh, I see.” He meets Crowley’s eyes and Crowley’s grin only widens. “Oh!” The angel glances downwards and the colour flooding his face is irresistible.

Crowley sways forward, catching him by the shoulder, and kisses him softly. Once, twice, more, over and over, whispering, “Yes, there. Yes, with that. Yes, in front of me.” He drops his other hand lower, undoing the bottom buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, pushing the tails out, aside, away, because, oh, he wants to see _everything_.

When he sits back on his heels like a devotee at prayer, Aziraphale is wide-eyed and rosy and _glowing_. The vibrator hums softly in his hands and he looks down at it as if he had almost forgotten it was there. For a moment, he looks dazed and nervous, then he takes a breath and that beatific smile lights his face.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “what to do.”

Bloody bastard always wants bloody words at the worst moment.

“Try it,” Crowley growls softly. “See. Show me what you like.”

The angel dabs his tongue along his lips, then nods, pressing one hand to the cover beside him and with the other, dips the toy down between his spread legs. At first contact, he gasps as his whole body jolts as if he’s touched an electric charge and Crowley’s body shivers in delicious sympathy.

“Good?” Crowley prompts softly, hands pressing to his own knees, kneading slowly.

The angel doesn’t reply at once, shifting his weight, leaning back a little way, then touches it to his body again. The small, shrill sound he makes is anything but bad and his fingers bunch in the covers beside him. He meets Crowley’s eyes, his breath coming hard, then slowly starts rubbing it, over and over, his hips starting to rock against his hand and the toy.

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale only nods and Crowley jumps when something knocks his elbow. Aziraphale’s knees are framing him now and God, he can’t resist an invitation like that, grasping them and kneading at them instead of his own, soft, warm, pliant skin giving under his hands. He slides his hands down, tracing the point where lace turns to flesh, curling his fingers, dragging his nails, wondering in awe at the way it makes Aziraphale’s breath turn into a hiss of air between clenched teeth.

Who could resist tasting that, he wonders as he leans in closer, stealing Aziraphale’s breath, sinking a hand into the angel’s hair. Between them, Aziraphale’s hand is still moving, but one finger uncurls, wraps around Crowley’s at the junction of hip and thigh. Welcoming. Offering.

“Help me,” Aziraphale whispers imploringly between kisses. “I don’t– _help_ me.”

Christ, how’s he meant to say no? How could he _want _to?

He wraps his hand around Aziraphale’s, guiding the strokes of the vibrator against him, pressing it lower and lower.

“Lie back,” he suggests and they sink down together, his body resting snug between Aziraphale’s upraised knees. Their hands are pressed between them and he moved them again, slowly, gently, letting Aziraphale understand, feel, know, what he’s doing. Aziraphale pants suddenly against his lips, arching, and he doesn’t wait or hesitate – just like the first time – sliding the toy slick and deep and presses the button to heighten the intensity of the pulse.

“Oh _Jesus_!” Aziraphale’s voice cracks.

Crowley lifts his head, feigning shock. “S’not my name, angel!”

Aziraphale stares at him blankly for a moment, then his face collapses into creases of beautiful breathless laughter and he reaches up to fist his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Idiot,” he complains happily, then hisses as Crowley slowly starts moving the toy in and out. “Oh… _oh_!”

“Good oh?” Crowley murmurs, leaning down over him to nuzzle his jaw, his throat, his cheek, his lips.

In reply, warm thighs wrap around his hips, as if he’s the one buried in Aziraphale’s body again, and the heated look to angel gives him is enough to make him feel like maybe he is. He kisses the angel again and again, soft licking, lapping, nipping kisses. He could swear that he feels the angel’s bliss around him. Impossible, but he’s smothered in it. The scent, the taste, the sound, the heat of Aziraphale all around him is leaving him light-headed.

“Love you,” Aziraphale gasps out close to his ear, his fingers pulling deliciously on Crowley’s hair. “Oh _fuck_…”

Crowley presses in closer to him, as if they’re trying to merge again, as if they can be one again, as if he can be with Aziraphale and Aziraphale with him and nothing in between them. He catches Aziraphale’s lips in ragged, open mouthed kisses, his fingers moving until they’re not, because everything is still and blissfully dizzyingly warm around him, and there are fingers in his hair and thighs around his waist and the only sounds is the chorus of their uneven breathing in the quiet of their room.

He feels fingers at the nape of his neck, slow circles tangled up in his hair. His breath is lost in Aziraphale’s throat, warming his own cheeks, and he can feel the thunder of the angel’s heart against his own, even through two layers of shirts. And with every breath, he would swear the angel’s hips rise and fall beneath his.

“Darling,” Aziraphale finally murmurs thickly, some time later, when the moon is beginning to wane, “I don’t mean to be a bother…”

“Mm?” Crowley manages to lift his head to look at his dazed-eyed lover.

Aziraphale looks utterly spent and sated and is still shivering every so often. “I– don’t suppose you could switch it off?”

Off?

“Oh!” Crowley scrambles back up onto his knees. “Oh fuck! Sorry!” He fumbles down between Aziraphale’s thighs, gently easing the still-buzzing toy out. No charge, he realises hysterically. Would’ve gone on indefinitely if Aziraphale hadn’t said anything. “I forgot!”

Aziraphale sags with relief, his whole body finally going limp. “I did–” He releases a shaky breath, a vague smile on his face. “I did wonder. I’ve never– I wasn’t sure if I– if it was meant to–”

“Not for three hours, no!” Crowley tosses it aside, crawling back up to cover the angel, searching his face. “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale gives him a sleepy smile of satisfaction. “Oh yes, my darling,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to gently pat his cheek. He yawns a little. “I’m quite… quite lovely, thank you.”

“Quiet lovely,” Crowley echoes, unable to stop the stupid soft smile from spreading across his face. “God, I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale holds out a demanding arm. “Love you too.” He pulls Crowley down into his embrace once more, arms and legs all about him. “My most darling love.”

Crowley kisses him softly, reverently on the throat and with a snap of his fingers, draws the night’s darkness around them.


End file.
